Ten years ago in Paris she had felt something of the same angry desire for the freedom of a man, something of the same impotence. Her curbed wildness then had tortured her. It tortured her now. Life was in violent activity all about her. Even the shop girls had something to look forward to. Soon they would be going out with their lovers. She knew something of the freedom of the modern girl. Women were beginning to take what men had always had. But all that freedom was too late for her! (She forgot that she had taken it long ago in Paris and felt that she had never had it. And that feeling made part of her anger.)
The clock struck the half-hour.
Just then the door was opened and the footman appeared before she had had time to move. He looked faintly surprised at seeing her standing facing him in the middle of the room.
“Mr. Craven has called my lady.”
“Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?”
“No, my lady. But Mr. Craven wouldn’t come up till I had seen your ladyship. He said it was so late. He asked me first to tell your ladyship he had called, and whether he might see you just for a minute, as he had a message to give your ladyship.”
“A message! Please ask him to come up.”
The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near the fire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but kind, not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment the footman announced “Mr. Craven,” and Craven walked in with an eager but slightly anxious expression on his face.
“I know it is much too late for a visit,” he said. “But I thought I might perhaps just speak to you.”
“Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?”